


Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

by qnchrpoint



Series: Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss [1]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Accounting, Aelin-critical, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Attachment Issues, Denial of Feelings, Economic Theory, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Misogyny, Non-Chronological, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-war transitions of power, References to suicidal ideation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qnchrpoint/pseuds/qnchrpoint
Summary: The war may have been won won, but the battle is far from done.AU where Kaltain and Nehemia survive the events of the series and go on to reluctantly bond over the administrative nightmare that is Aelin’s ‘peaceful’occupationrule of acontinentmajor continental power.Told in a series of snippets, drabbles, and standalone stories.





	1. Rise With The Sun I

**Author's Note:**

> *Throws a dozen tag warnings for future content dealing with all of Kaltain's trauma*
> 
> Just because she lives doesn't mean she's _happy_.
> 
> Chapter title is a reference to Avatar: The Last Airbender.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prolific war-time heroes do not always make for the best peace-time bureaucrats.

 

Fire magic users were supposed to rise with the sun. Aelin has said that was nothing but a preposterous myth and a terrible stereotype besides. Slanderous, even. If the occasion did not demand it, she would not rise from her bed until midday. “This much can be accorded to the Queen of Terrasen and Liberator of Erelia, can’t it? Some decent hours of sleep?”

Nehemia would reliably reply, “You would not have to rise so late if you slept a little more early.”

But Aelin would pay it no heed. Years of assassin training, she’d claimed, had left her more attuned to the night. Her fae prince consort (because Nehemia had gagged at the faux pas of naming him King of anything, as had all the major lords and ladies of Terrasen on the Council, even the newly restored Lady Elide of Perranth — if admittedly only after some badgering on multiple fronts) was much the same.

Kaltain had once quipped, and only when Aelin was well out of earshot, “Attuned to her bed, more likely.”

Nehemia hated agreeing with Kaltain, but years of study under the most patient of tutors and learned of sages had also taught her it was folly to reject anyone’s words or wisdom just due to personal character — or lack thereof.

She still owed Kaltain a small debt for convincing Elide Lochan to vote against titling Rowan a king.

The day had been memorable.

Aelin had been furious at the betrayal and a vicious fight had broken out between Rowan and Lorcan in a dogged attempt to defend their mates’ “honour” or some such nonsense, but eventually they'd been convinced to get pried off of each other, but not before Aelin started shooting of wildfire in a spat of outrage and either the situation, or the intervention of the other fae males in her court.

Dorian, unfortunately, had already traveled South for his official coronation ceremony, and was not present to intervene with his magic.

Nehemia would have paid handsomely to see him freeze the whole room in a blanket of blizzards and hail until all these quarrelsome brutes quite literally ‘cooled off’.

Kaltain, present only because she had not quite managed to find away to excuse herself during a pre-confrontation strategy meeting that Elide and Nehemia had held just moments prior, had reluctantly been coaxed to redirect some of Aelin’s wildfire and minimise the property destruction involved, but the effort of it in the face the absurd torrent of magic Rowan and Aelin pooled between themselves had left her lethargic and vomiting for days — what the healers called ‘the spiritual equivalent of food poisoning’.

(She had a feeling Kaltain was still upset about that.)

 _Whether he's a prince or a king won't fill sails with wind, of fields with crops, or turn mills or braid nets or load ships or take inventory of the thousand and one amateurs who think they can go on avoiding paying excise duty_ , Kaltain had groused. _I told you I've washed my hands of all of that. Name the Queen’s pet hawk whatever you like. Just leave me out of it. I leave you alone and make money. Isn't that all you people wanted?_

They both knew that was a lie.

The pithy title and size of Rowan’s crown could lead to burnt fields and empty ships, circling ports unable get permission to land, and arrows raining from the skies above.

Nehemia had swallowed her pride and begged. So Kaltain had turned and been reduced to the same, pleading and arguing with Elide of Perranth to vote against the decree for Kingship. And whatever trust or (facsimile) of a friendship between them had been just enough for it to be a yes.

“Ask the witch next time,” Kaltain had complained again once it was over and done with, with the serene dignity of a sitting Duchess, and like Nehemia hadn't just seen her throw up in a bucket underneath her desk, blobs of spittle and vomit dotting the edges of her parchments and ledgers.

“I will,” Nehemia relented.

(She wouldn't. Manon Blackbeak, queen of all witches, Crochan and Ironteeth alike, could never be contacted. At least not by her. And even if she could, she'd never answer Nehemia’s calls to go against Elide’s decisions. She'd never go against Elide at all.)

Even when she was a dry-heaving mess, even when sweat plastering tendrils of hair to her forehead like streaks of ink, Kaltain’s papers were in capable order. They weren't as clean, and the writing was strained, the quills splotching ink unevenly on each stroke, but still perfectly legible, neatly filed, systematic and accessible should the need ever arise.

She could admire Kaltain’s dedication to work, at least.

Kaltain looked up and her, her knuckles bone white, grasping the edge of the desk to keep herself upright. She sensed that they both knew Nehemia was only offering a polite lie.

Kaltain glared. It lacked any fire. Perhaps she’d used it all up, trying to bring Aelin’s inferno of a temper tantrum to heel. Kaltain was tired. They were all tired. This was just the way things were now.

“Never ask me to use magic again.”

 


	2. Pragmatism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the uneasy peace after the defeat of the Valg, Elide dips her toes into the waters of political wrangling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set prior to chapter 1: Rise With The Sun. Please not that non-chronological order tag. If things get messier, and chapters get more numerous, I'll set up a preface chapter with a simple timeline to help follow along. For know, let's keep things mysterious :)

 

"Lord Allsbrook.”

"Kaltain. You know you can just call me Ren, when we're all in private like this."

"l think you and I both know that’s untrue."

"That's your view of it. At this point, I can hardly change it.”

Kaltain dipped into a curtsey, first to Elide, then to Ren. "Lady Lochan. lf may take my leave?”

 _Ugh there it is again._ It was hard to feel like they were still friends when she did this. _She could have at least tried to make it sound like she was teasing me._

Maybe some distaste made itself plain on Ren’s face, because he snickered a little.

"You may leave,” Elide said. She didn’t like having to say it.

"The lady is most lucky to be in your service, Lady Lochan. Not many would allow such swift business."

"Oh not you too,” Elide groaned.

Ren laughed. Not a snicker, not a snigger, not some stolen bolt of laughter in a sigh or a scoff. For a second, Elide almost felt like they were children again, teasing each other. "I'm just following Lady Kaltain’s good manners."

"She calls you Ren when you’re not around, if it makes you feel any better. Goes 'Ren _Alls_ brook' in this very disparaging tone.”

“It's always nice to know I leave enough an impression to be disrespected behind my back."

After the end of the war, and in a rare (for her) moment of clemency, Aelin had opted to compromise with the Lords Declarant that had opposed her bid to sit Terrrasen’s throne. Ren’s appointment as Royal Spymaster was one of those concessions that maintained an uneasy peace in Terrasen. Ren made a lot of noise publically about allying with those lords, but Aelin felt his alliagence was truer to her. (Some days Elide wondered if the other side thought the same was true, and that, beneath _that_ charade, Ren was _their_ man.)

Politically, Elide had remained staunchly part of the pro-Galanthynius faction. Personally, as much as she loved and admired Aelin, she found it easier to get along with Ren. He was quiet, thoughtful, measured. Aelin was still wildfire, still moved too fast, still kept too many plans in her head. Elide felt like a child again in the palace only this time, instead of being unable to keep up with child Aelin's constantly shifting flights of fancy as they play-pretended to kill griffons that turned into wyverns that turned into ice giants that were on their side or maybe not, Elide kept pace with public policy that shifted more than the sand in the tide.

Ren leaned on the side of the bannister. Some of his hair, still long, fell rakishly over his eyes. He gave a lazy smirk. It was rare to see him at ease. They both had that kind of haunted understanding about them — remembering what it was like to be helpless and poor and struggling, hungry and on the run, safe for a moment knowing things could change in a second.

 _He is trying to woo me,_ Elide thought. _But I am not so easily moved._

(She imagined Kaltain laughing at the thought, the way her eyes would flicker in Lorcan’s direction and then back, just the whisper of words that didn’t need to be said aloud. She brushed it away: the sound of Kaltain’s laughter, the wispy image of Lorcan, like smoke out of the darkness.)

 _Perranth is the second largest seat in Terrasen, bar the Royal capital at Orynth,_ Kaltain had reminded her the day before, amongst a litter of a papers and accounts she still couldn’t read well, pushing little castle shaped tokens around on map laid out on the table. _Together with the Queen, you form a power bloc stable enough to maintain control of Terrasen._

Perranth and Orynth and Suria: the backbone of Aelin’s coalition. Lysandra held Cavarre, but there was not much respect for the territory, nor its Lady. Kaltain was a dab hand at collecting court whispers. She’d passed them on the Elide. To her face, they offered Lysandra begrudging respect. Behind her back, the words they said made her stomach turn. (Kaltain had not flinched. _I’ve heard worse rumors. I’ve started_ _worse too.)_

“Don’t try and charm me, Ren Allsbrook.”

“Don't worry. I have come to realise you are quite immune.”

_Ren Allsbrook would, hypothetically, be the best candidate for a Declarent counterclaimant against Her Majesty. The next best claimant after him would be you._

_He strikes me as the type who would make sacrifices for the sake of his country. A politically advantaged marriage is, of course, to be expected. if it were to, hypothetically, pose an obstacle to Her Majesty, I trust you understand who the most ideal candidate for alliance would be._

_All the better given you get along — well enough._

_But you know your interests. There is no need to be tempted. Marriage produced many good friends. Dear companions. if that is what you are looking for, you may find it. if you think you could find it in yourself to love him some day, perhaps you could. But please know the limits of what he may offer back. To many, it would be more than adequate. More than...enough. But you may disagree. Make your choices informed. I cannot tell you the best course of action any more than I can tell you which way the wind will blow in the morning._

In early days of the war, still fresh from the thrill of victory Elide had wanted to marry Lorcan right there and then. Kaltain had brought her to pause and pleaded to wait. Not to _never_ marry him, but to wait.

_If you wished to marry him for political expedience I wouldn’t be so cautious. Marriage for love is a hard thing. If love is so strong it can wait a year, can’t it? Life is longer than it feels and if love permits it, at least enjoy how it feels to be in love before marriage. Time only runs one way. And if no other argument will let you consider it, all least allow the time for me to arrange a fancier wedding for you. As a favour to me, who loves you dearly. I will get on my knees to ask this favour from you, so please consider it. Please wait._

Now, not quite a year had passed from that day, and she appreciated the sentiment.

Her empty ring-finger had proven her mightiest bargaining chip and came as easy as any other lie.And as for her heart…

 _Kaltain pretends to be heartless but knows more on matter of the heart than she’d care to admit,_ Elide thought, her own heart disgruntled.

Lorcan was many things but some days she found herself daydreaming of other places and other possibilities. Sometimes guilt and regret coiled in her stomach. But Lorcan always remained there, ready to join her side whenever she wished it.

“It is a shame Lady Kaltain does not wish to join us,” Ren said. His voice was dryer than Lorcan’s with a softer bite — the tang of lemon zests instead of the smack of vinegar. “I do so often like to be nagged at about building roads and canals in all the wrong places, and that sacks of rotting potatoes could dress themselves more tastefully than me.”

"Enough joking around, Ren. Did you come here to tease my advisors, or did you come to talk business?"

“If I came to talk business, I‘d wait for your merchant-born lady-in-waiting to come back.”

Elide rolled her eyes, guiding them back indoors to the atrium. "And if it were more metaphorical 'business'?"

Ren retrieved a large map from his satchel. He unrolled it on the table, weighing down the curling corners with books — ledgers, most likely, letters and reports. "My lady, at last, you are speaking my language."

 

=

 

Elide was still unaccustomed to having attendants and handmaids. For functions and public appearence she endured the strange touches from the kind-hearted and well meaning ladies and girls sent to attend to her. But when she could, she preferred to do things herself or, if time permitted, with a friend.

Kaltain brushed the tangle out of her hair with gentle, even strokes and a deft hand. Elide had been surprised the first time. Kaltain had only laughed and said that being able to attend to a lady’s hair and dress was one of the pre-requisites to being appointed a lady in waiting to a queen. Despite her skills, Kaltain rarely wore it up. (It was strange as well to think of the life and lives Kaltain had lived before Perranth — a merchant’s daughter in Bellhaven, a ward of an exiled countess, a member of the court in Rifthold, _anything_ in before Morath.)

Elide could do her hair on her own, but only in practical, inelegant styles. Kaltain showed her some things now and them but prefaced them with disclaimer that they were likely out of fashion already, no matter how pretty Elide thought they already looked. Usually though, Kaltain brushed it out for bed. Elide could do that herself too, technically, but it felt nice to have someone else do it — Kaltain especially. It felt like having a sister.

“Would you marry Ren, if you were me?”

“I’d be too scared of the tyrant on the throne who might suspect me of treason to commit to that.”

"Fine. Would you marry Ren if _he_ asked you to?”

"It would be a poor match for him. I would be rather suspicious, and decline. No need for that sort of funny business."

"Kaltain."

"Fine, yes, I understand what you’re actually asking.” Kaltain crossed her arms, considering. "He is handsome enough, and rich enough, and kind enough. There's nothing disagreeable about him outright. A bit surly, to be sure, but I prefer that kind of morose, pensive sulking to Chaol Westfall’s walls of stoic brooding. Personally, he's fine. Literally fine. Adequate. And if you’re asking about me, I never much expected any kind of a love match in my marriage. I think he and l could get along, if only because we both know what we’re transacting.”

She paused. "Kaltain. I didn’t know you were—”

"Now, now, there's no need to say it aloud."

Elide paused. ”You know it’s fine, right? Lord Darrow was the king’s lover. No one would bat an eye if—”

"I don’t want to talk about this anymore."

"I think we should.”

Kaltain snapped, ”If it’s really so fine, why are you here, fretting and fussing between a demi-fae and an Terrasen lordling when there’s a queen you could be talking to?”

The quiet that followed was like the silence after a thunderclap, when the nose and made you a little deaf and left a vague ringing in the soundless air.

Elide waited, half-expected an apology to be said — by either of them.

Instead, there was nothing.

She swallowed a lump down her throat.

”You’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this.”


End file.
